


Dirty Weekend

by berlynn_wohl



Series: The Hiddlebatch Series [2]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral Sex, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Benedict don't get to see each other very often. When they do, they go...a bit mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Weekend

A/N #1: This is a sequel to my fic [Snow Day](543482). It is not necessary to have read that fic, but there are two brief references to it here.

A/N #2: All I wanted to do was write a cute fic about [how Benedict acquired this black cardigan](http://berlynn-wohl.tumblr.com/post/34842983312/theres-something-familiar-about-benedicts). It got a little out of control. Hope you enjoy.

 

**1.**

“To have news value is to have a tin can tied to one’s tail.” The relationship between the man who said this and his own news value was very complex indeed, and it predated much of today’s permeable technology. These days, to have news value was to have a tin can tied to one’s mobile.

Having read with horror the reports of News International listening in on the conversations of various public figures, Tom and Benedict approached their telephone chats like wartime cryptographers. It wasn’t that they were ashamed; it was just nobody’s business.

“I’m looking forward to coming home,” Benedict said. It was the last time he planned to speak to Tom before they saw each other again. “I’m very excited to see London again.” These two sentences were bland enough to slot into any public-relations blurb, but Benedict said _London_ in a particular way.

“It is always nice to come home, isn’t it,” Tom replied. “Sometimes when I’m away, London is all I can think about.”

“D’you know what I’d like to do when I return? You remember that…restaurant we went to, the night before the _Six Generals_ premiere? I’d love to go back there again.”

“I remember that place, yeah. I was worried you might think it was too exotic.”

“Not at all. I quite enjoyed it.”

Tom and Benedict had not been to a restaurant at all, the night before that premiere. They were really talking about the night that Benedict had held Tom down and licked his arsehole and balls for twenty-five minutes while Tom squirmed and begged for Benedict’s cock. Afterward, Benedict turned Tom over with the intention of blowing him, but instead, the moment he wrapped his hand round Tom’s cock, Tom came with an enormous cry of relief and shot his load all over Benedict’s face. Tom had been mortified. He’d tried to wipe away the come with his fingers, apologising profusely. Benedict had just laughed, then grabbed Tom’s hand and licked his fingers clean.

 

 

**2.**

Tom was ashamed of himself for the way he was behaving.

He had been able to busy himself in the morning with tidying up and making a few calls, but once he’d run out of fiddly tasks to keep him occupied, he found himself unable to do anything but ruminate on Benedict’s imminent return. For the hundredth time, he calculated the precise moment of his arrival: _If his flight arrives precisely on time, let’s say forty minutes to get off the plane and retrieve his luggage, another ten to get a cab, seventy minutes from Heathrow to central London…so, one forty- five? Maybe say two to be safe. Oh god, but what if the flight’s delayed? What if he’s still at JFK right now? No, no, he would have rung me if that had happened…_

Meanwhile, a plethora of other activities, which would have happily occupied him on any other leisurely day, went ignored. He had intended to catch up on some emails; he could think of a dozen people who deserved more of his attention than he’d given lately. He also had two reading stacks, one for books and one for scripts, which he could have been working on. But who could concentrate on these things when Benedict was due to arrive any second? (And by “any second,” read “at least two hours from now.”)

Lacking any other instrument which might prevent him from staring blankly at the walls for an indefinite period, he put the telly on. But even that couldn’t hold his attention. Instead, he fantasised about Benedict’s arrival: he’d probably be wanting a shower. Tom would happily join him for that, even though he had already showered that morning in case Benedict showed up ready to hop straight into bed. And when they did go to bed, would Benedict want to have a simple, straightforward fuck first, to get reacquainted? Or would he be impatient to try something more esoteric that he’d been thinking about? Or perhaps he’d be up for trying the six or seven things that Tom had been thinking about, the last two months. Not all of them at once, of course…

Tom knew it was dangerous to be infatuated with someone this way, even if (especially if?) it was with someone with whom he was actually properly involved. Being paralysed by lovesickness was an enormous waste of time and emotional energy…but he just couldn’t help himself. And heart-pounding amorous anticipation has a short shelf-life, quickly breaking down into frustration and bitterness when not satisfied. What business did he have possessing such absurd feelings, anyway? For god’s sake, he was _British_.

But he had done a commendable job the past eight weeks, getting on with his work and not dwelling on these thoughts. The moment was just too close now. So he let himself feel the giddy anticipation, and accepted the generous portion of shame alongside.

Of course, as soon as the doorbell rang, Tom forgot every single feeling he’d ever had before that moment. He paused before opening the door to collect himself, lest he embarrass both of them by resembling too closely a grown man whose heart was about to burst out of his chest at the sight of another grown man.

When Tom opened the door, Benedict had a duffel bag in front of him, preventing a hug on the doorstep. He slipped in and closed the door behind him, dropped the bag, and embraced Tom.

“A thousand pardons for being late. I thought it would be good manners to stop at my place to have a shower first.”

“I gathered that,” Tom said into the crook of Benedict’s neck. “No one gets off a plane smelling this good, wearing clothes this fresh. Mmm.”

“Haven’t eaten, though. Shall we go out?”

“No need. There’s plenty in the fridge.”

“Something light will do.”

 

 

**3.**

Benedict sat at the dining table, munching on an apple while Tom made sandwiches.

“I’m going to put some music on. Do you like Bon Iver?”

Benedict’s response was to gesture as though he were holding a box of soap flakes aloft. “ _Bon Iver_ ,” he said, in the manner of an announcer reciting a slogan. “ _When Radiohead is just too exciting for you_.”

“How about U2, then? Oh, unless you want to hear the new Nicki Min—”

“U2 will do fine, thank you!”

“I’ve got their Passengers album. Have you ever heard it? I’ve had it on heavy rotation lately.”

Benedict raised one eyebrow. “Are you trying to out-hipster me? Because I will take you to the mat.”

When the record came on, Tom returned to work in the kitchen while Benedict took a peek at the unopened mail on his dining table, looking for anything sensational. There was nothing of the sort. When a plate was set before him, he ate in silence, enjoying the record, and Tom didn’t interrupt his reverie; by turns, he watched Benedict eat his sandwich, then averted his eyes, embarrassed at being enamored of watching someone chew, then snuck another look.                                                                                                                      

Benedict found himself humming solemnly along with [Your Blue Room](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbwuS-xX8qQ), and remarked, “This would be a fantastic album to have a nice, slow fuck to.”

Tom dropped his half-eaten sandwich on the plate and stood up. “I thought you’d never ask.” He darted round to Benedict’s side of the table and seized him, burying his face in Benedict’s neck and kissing it between little yearning growls.

Benedict let Tom continue until he’d swallowed his last bite of turkey and swiss on whole wheat, then wrapped both arms round Tom’s waist, hoisted him up, and pivoting, propelled him onto his back on the table. He ground his cock against Tom’s, a groan rolling out of his mouth, and yanked Tom’s shirt up to have a rough feel.

Tom gasped, “You said a nice slow fuck! Slow fucks do not happen on the dining table!”

“Then get up and put on a record suitable for a nice quick fuck. What have you got for lube in the kitchen?”

“You are being an animal!” With both hands, Tom pushed ineffectually at Benedict’s shoulders. Benedict was planted firmly; he had no plans to go anywhere.

“You must be joking,” Benedict replied. “I’m no animal; I’m dead posh. This is a Spencer Hart shirt. And have you heard my _name_?”

“Get off me and let me drag you into the bedroom, so I can ride your cock in there, like a decent civilised person would do.”

Benedict pulled Tom up into a standing position beside him, curtly, like it was his idea in the first place. “Suppose you’re right,” he said, smoothing his shirt down. “After all, what would the neighbours think, hm?”

 

 

**4.**

It was not easy to tell whether Tom’s bedroom was so pristine because he’d tidied before Benedict’s visit, or because his overseas work had left it little-used. Two things he had obviously set up in anticipation of this weekend: a few bottles of water placed on the bedside table, and a bottle of lube resting atop a stack of towels at the foot of the bed. Benedict surveyed the preparations and clucked his tongue. “What a little tart.”

Tom got to work unbuttoning Benedict’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. “And what would you have called me if I hadn’t been prepared?”

“An ill-prepared tart.”

“You’re the one who had an erection while you were eating a sandwich.”

“That sandwich was amazing, though.”

Tom had his hands all over Benedict’s chest now, murmuring, “Yes. Amazing.” When Benedict snorted derisively, Tom looked up and saw the flush in his cheeks. “You’re blushing already? I haven’t even gotten started being lewd with you.” He punctuated the word _lewd_ with a thrust of his hand into Benedict’s trousers for a feel of his cock. With his other hand, Tom pulled down the zip, and with just a tug to the waistband of the boxers underneath, he got his first look at the moist, red tip of it. When he tried to pull trousers and boxers down in one go, Benedict began to laugh. “Alright, I know you’re keen, but you do realise I’ve still got my shoes on.”

“So get them off.”

“Well, now that you’ve—” Benedict tried to lift one foot to toe off the other shoe, but lost his balance, and with his trousers round his knees, simply tipped over and onto the bed.

“Excellent. Now this is progress.” Tom climbed onto Benedict, and for a while they accomplished very little more, as each of them, in trying to get the other’s clothes off, was impeding the other’s progress. At one point, Benedict tried to get Tom’s cock in his mouth while both were still half-undressed, but Tom reiterated that this was a _civilised_ dirty weekend, not some clandestine rut in Regents Park.

Benedict conceded, and especially appreciated that being free of binding clothing allowed him to spread Tom out and inspect every part of him without hindrance. He slipped a hand under Tom’s balls and had a good thorough feel while whispering in Tom’s ear, “Have you been playing with your toy in the shower?”

“Not lately. I wanted to be a tight fit for you.”

Benedict’s low, rumbling laugh made Tom shiver all over; his spine tingled for several seconds after Benedict’s lips left his ear and sought out other hot, sensitive parts of him.

The cursory licks and kisses Benedict gave were less than Tom deserved, but his cock was throbbing painfully with the need for release. In a hurry, he picked up the bottle of lube and pumped a generous dollop onto his fingers. “I’ll bet you’re ready for my cock right now,” he said. He intended it to sound assertive, but it came out more like a hopeful inquiry. He wanted to skip a step if he could, but Tom was having none of that.

“No, I need you to prepare me.”

Benedict froze, where he’d been about to put the lube on his cock. “Very well,” came his clipped reply. Tom spread his legs invitingly, and shifted against the mattress like he was settling in for a long, fun ride.

It was one thing to rub and caress it. But when Benedict pushed into that warm, strange/familiar place, the resistance provoked a twinge of reluctance, like he was putting something where it didn’t belong. But Tom’s writhing and begging urged him on, and he forgot his hesitation. When Tom clenched around his fingers, Benedict felt it all the way down to his balls. Tom was so silky inside, and Benedict became even more intensely impatient to feel that smooth heat clinging to his cock.

He removed his fingers so he could get himself slicked up for the main event, but Tom cried out, “Wait. Keep doing that. I’m not ready yet.”

“Oh, you are _so_ ready.” Benedict rolled his eyes. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“I’m really not. Please, keep doing it.”

Tom squirmed with delight and rolled his hips while Benedict dutifully continued. He seemed unable to decide what to do with his own hands; he would clutch the pillow behind his head as if his life depended on it, then let go like he’d just been unshackled and reach for his balls instead, to cradle them up and away from where Benedict was working him. Benedict had never seen balls that charmingly pink. They flushed the same pink as Tom’s cheeks, when he got worked into a particular frenzy. Tom also had an enormous and beautiful cock, and while Benedict had no desire to have it in him, he loved to watch Tom play with it while he was fucked or fingered.

“Alright,” Tom groaned. “Now.” Benedict gladly slipped his fingers out, and Tom lifted his legs and held the backs of his knees, as though it were not already clear where Benedict was supposed to put it. “Now, now, now, fuck me.” It was his turn to be impatient, while Benedict carefully applied the lube to his cock without stroking himself off and inadvertently moving himself too far along in the proceedings.

The sudden heat of Benedict covering Tom’s body with his own was breathtaking, and then when Benedict’s cock slid all the way in, Tom hiccupped for lack of oxygen. Those fingers had felt incredible, twisting deftly inside him, but nothing felt like a cock, hot and thick and twitching. The best feeling was when Benedict’s strokes were irregular – when Tom couldn’t quite predict the next one. The surprise of it sent shocks of electric pleasure down his thighs. Benedict gave him deep, sweet strokes, whilst he tugged gently at his cock, pushing his foreskin up over the crown, then slipping it back down. His other hand was behind his head, propping it so he could more easily witness the proceedings.

The sight of Tom’s languorous pleasure put a hot, sharp feeling in Benedict’s guts, and he gasped, “ _Ooh,_ um, the next one will have to be the slow one, if I’m honest.”

Tom reached down as Benedict’s cock slid out of him and pinched it brutally just behind the head for several seconds. Benedict winced, but admittedly it did drive away the urge to come.

“I want the slow one _now_ ,” Tom insisted.

“Alright, alright, I can do slow." Gritting his teeth, Benedict took his excruciating time pushing his cock back in. When the tops of his thighs touched Tom’s arse, he continued to grind himself deeper, forcing Tom’s legs further up and apart. “This slow enough for you, darling?”

Tom was beaming now. “Oh, _yes_.”

This was what Tom so dearly loved about Benedict, With him, there was no _wait a moment, just let me…that hurts, actually…oh, I’ve got a cramp._ None of that. Tom could trust Benedict to do excellent work whilst he just laid back and received, relaxed and open for those perfect thrusts.

Tom hadn’t been touching his cock, so even though he felt delicious and his prostate throbbed with the attention it was getting, he wasn’t close to coming yet. But when Benedict shifted his weight and inadvertently gave Tom two shallow strokes, Tom cried out, “Oh, keep doing that.” Benedict did as he was told, though he quickly realised that the increased friction of Tom’s rim on the crown of his cock would be simply too much for him to bear.

“I can’t – I’m gonna come,” Benedict grunted. “Where do you want it?”

“On my stomach,” Tom said. “Then finish me off.”

Benedict pulled out too fast, provoking a shocked, bereft noise from Tom. Two strokes was all it took, and his spunk shot out for Tom to rub into his smooth, flat belly. Squeezing the last trickle out, Benedict shoved the middle and ring fingers of his other hand deeply into Tom, whilst Tom jerked himself.

“You naughty thing,” Benedict murmured as he watched, targeting the sensitive little bump amongst the velvety softness of Tom’s insides. “You naughty, dirty thing.”

Tom didn’t stop rubbing Benedict’s spunk in, and soon added his own, plentiful and clear, until he was glistening with it all, from his nipples to his pubic hair. Benedict was mesmerised by the lascivious, open-mouthed expression on Tom’s angelic face as he tilted his head to watch himself smearing it on his belly.

Moments later, Tom let his head drop back onto the pillow, sighing as he traced lazy random shapes with the tip of his middle finger. “It feels nice to do it, but the thrill doesn’t last long,” he lamented. “Now I’m just a sticky mess.”

Benedict rolled off the bed, took a moment to get his legs properly under himself, and made his way into the en suite bathroom. Tom heard him having a piss, then turning on the tap and opening a cupboard. “Are you bringing me back a damp flannel?” he called.

“I’m a gentleman, aren’t I?” Benedict’s voice was gravelly from the shouting and grunting he’d just been doing.

When Benedict returned, he suddenly covered his nose and mouth with his hand and laughed. “Oh God, it smells like fucking in here.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

“Try leaving the room and coming back.”

“I don’t have to, that’s what I have you for,” Tom said cheerily as Benedict cleaned him with the flannel.

Benedict caught sight of one stray dollop of spunk that Tom had missed, as it was trickling down his side. He gathered it up and put his finger to Tom’s mouth. Tom took the finger and sucked whilst looking Benedict straight in the eye.

“The face you make when you come is amazing,” Benedict said.

Tom relinquished the finger. “Really? Because yours is hideous.”

“ _I beg your pardon_?”

“I mean, it’s endearing in the moment, but when I think about it afterwards I laugh.”

“Thanks for telling me.” Benedict rolled his eyes. “It was really important that I knew that.”

“You’ll forget I said it.”

 

 

**5.**

They had arrived at a place where they felt no shame in offering up the most private parts of their bodies to each other, giving and receiving erotic attention both playful and earnest. Tom presented his arse from every angle imaginable. By far the position that made them feel the dirtiest was when he bent his knees slightly, held his calves, and let Benedict fuck him just standing in the middle of the floor, neither of them bracing themselves on any furniture. It was as though they were so gagging for a fuck that they couldn’t even make it the three feet to an available surface. And with nothing to hold their weight or provide resistance, they had to do a lot more pushing and pulling on each other. When Tom came, he began to lose his balance. Benedict grabbed his arms, and they held each other by the wrists, with Benedict pulling on Tom’s arms to impale him on his cock.

Later, they tested the flexibility of Tom’s spine by seeing how deeply they could kiss while Benedict fucked him from behind. When Tom found himself unable to do his “trick,” and was prevented from using his hands to make himself come, Benedict fucked him until he cried with frustration.

Tom was always careful to insist on using plenty of lube, but when his arsehole finally became too sore, Benedict put it between his thighs instead, and came all over his balls.

They became experts at cocksucking, when they decided to take turns taking it very slow and instructing each other, exploring, critiquing every flick of each other’s tongues. They spoiled each other rotten; by the end of the weekend, Tom no longer felt that he’d been blown properly if his balls and arsehole didn’t get long, lingering licks, and while Benedict did not insist on such thorough treatment, he settled for nothing less than seeing (and hearing) the dirtiest, sloppiest, sucking possible, rivers of spit and noisy wet sounds spilling from Tom’s mouth and down his cock.

Every once in a while they calmed down enough to just talk for a while, and catch up on each others’ lives. Tom told Benedict about the books he’d been reading, every last one of which was “incredible” and “fascinating”: _The Half-Life of Facts_ , _What the Dog Saw_ , _Joseph Anton_ , _Ready Player One_ , _The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks_ , and so on.

They’d been having such a captivating conversation, Tom had been putting off going for a piss, and when he finally got up, he left the bathroom door open. Benedict looked the other way out of courtesy, but the noise of relief Tom made as he held his cock turned Benedict on so much, he started having a wank. When Tom saw this, he asked if he could now watch Benedict piss. They waited until his cock softened enough for him to do it. Afterwards, they showed each other how they wanked, and told each other stories about their adolescent masturbatory exploits.

Though Benedict had certainly enjoyed Tom when he was fresh and clean, he also found himself more than slightly turned on when Tom was fucked-out, debauched, and a bit ripe. Once, when he was in this state, Benedict triggered Tom’s orgasm by calling him a filthy name, a compound noun so vulgar that Benedict had never before uttered it in his life.

The fact that he could elicit such a stunning reaction with a single word made Benedict feel exhilarated. Here he was, looking down the barrel of forty, suffering from occasional back spasms, his wrist hurting when the weather changed, and needing twice as long now to comb his hair so he could arrange his fringe over his scarred forehead. But when he was with Tom, God, he just felt like he was in the prime of life, his body a flawless machine that could relentlessly deliver pleasure, to say nothing of how much it received. 

They both came so much that weekend, they started coming dry; four orgasms went by and they were unable to produce a drop of spunk between them. They ate ravenously and then slept, hoping that after fueling and resting they would be back to producing big healthy spurts for each other.

“You only love me for my prick,” Benedict would complain, once.

“I love everything about you,” Tom would reply, “but I can only concentrate on one thing at a time.”

At one point, sprawled across the bed with wide-awake brains but exhausted bodies, they amused themselves for a full thirty-five minutes speaking to each other only in their respective Alan Rickman impersonations.

And then Tom would do something foolish like tell Benedict about a fantasy he had where they were playing with each other’s pricks under a blanket in the darkened cabin of a red-eye flight, and pretty soon they would be at it again.  
  
Tom was right; Benedict did forget that comment about the face he made when he came...and he continued making it.

 

 

**6.**

Theirs was a lazy sixty-nine – really, it more closely resembled a seventy-one. The two of them laid on their sides, necks craned to get at each other sufficiently. They pulled lazily at one another’s cocks with their lips; sometimes one or the other of them would move more insistently, but it wouldn’t be long before they relaxed back into a more leisurely rhythm.

Finally, Benedict pulled away and said, “Er, listen, I don’t think I can come again. It’s lovely, but I am knackered.”

Tom laughed. “Oh thank _God_ you said something. I felt the same way, but I didn’t want to be the one to put a stop to things.” He turned himself around so he could lie properly in Benedict’s arms, and they laughed with embarrassment at their situation. “Serves us right. We’re randy as goats and now we’ve broken ourselves,” Tom said. “We need to put some clothes on and get out of the flat.”

“Agreed. There’s got to be…” Benedict checked the clock. “…two hours of daylight left. How far is the Heath from here?”

“Not far. Let’s walk and then have dinner. There’s this Argentinian place.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Tom got himself off the mattress but sort of fell on the floor, then righted himself and headed for the bathroom. Benedict peered over the side of the bed, hoping to locate the requisite clothes by sight rather than stumble about for them. He saw a pile of crumpled denim that was likely to belong to him. And his shirt, there. One sock. Hanging over the arm of a chair was a black cardigan, Tom’s.

Benedict managed to get himself into his clothes and the one sock, then picked up the cardigan. Tom was taller, and Benedict had more in the shoulders than he did, but it was still a good fit; just a touch too big. A perfect wooly jumper for a cool evening walk.

 

 

**7.**

Seeing as how he and Tom spent most of their time making films on separate continents, it ached a bit that day, when Benedict realised that they were currently a mere two hundred miles from each other. It was, possibly, the first time in history that two hundred miles did not seem a long way to an Englishman. As Benedict tapped at the screen of his mobile, he had this absurd feeling, like he was only ringing Tom to say he’d just put the kettle on and would Tom like to pop over?

The call went to voicemail, and he felt silly for not texting instead. But moments later, Tom rang back.

“Sorry, I couldn’t get to my phone quick enough. I was in the scorpion pose. So how is Ghent?”

Benedict swallowed thickly. “Just lovely, except now I’m getting an erection thinking about you in the scorpion pose.”

“Are you still at the film festival, or are you in your hotel room?”

“Hotel room.”

“So how is it not also lovely that you’re getting an erection?”

“Fair point.” Benedict cleared his throat. They shouldn’t say those things over the phone. Dangerous. Instead, he said what he’d called to say: “Had to do a photo shoot today.”

“Yeah? Was it one of those where they make you do ridiculous things for no reason? Did they give you a hawk?”

“I asked if they were going to want me to do anything strenuous. They said no, I just needed to sit there and look handsome. I told them that for me, trying to look handsome _is_ strenuous.”

Benedict picked up the black cardigan with his free hand, holding it in his lap. He wondered if Tom noticed that he’d never gotten it back. “It was dreadfully boring. But when the pictures come out on the website, I think you should have a look.” He knew he had to be transmitting his grin with his voice.

In response, Tom suddenly adopted a nonchalant tone, which was no doubt a strain for him. “Well, if you insist. I mean, I’m sure if I try _hard_ enough, I might find _something_ to appreciate in them…”

In a sing-song little voice, Benedict replied, “Oh, I’m certain you will.”


End file.
